The March Revolution
by Mark Ryan
Summary: With the right atmosphere of stagnant depression and simmering dissent along with the return of the localized PDF from a decade long crusade, a group of prominent Domum citizens take the good of their people in their own hands. But at what cost?
1. Origins

The introductory parts of the March Revolution, which will obviously spiral out of control in the days to come. Not much to say here, except that when the story is told from a first person or from a tone as though a person is telling the story, the narrator is General Aleksei Novikov, the leader of the Magnite Regiments, who have been crusading for a decade, and return home to find their home in a depression. As all high ranking military officers in this planet, he has a duel purpose as a government consultant.

-------

Right then the world came to its end. The earth was scoured and blackened, the sky alight in a deep angry red. This was the last storm the world would see for a many hundred years, and one that would alter history. It had leveled all the cities and towns, grading down the land in its entirety.

Except of course, the last city, the capitol. Before the clouds came, He had claimed it as his domain, toppling the already weakened government, a diseased socialism, a stagnant thing, rife with rebellion. It had been easy work for Him. He had only needed the push along the way.

He loved that city while it lasted. The old cathedrals mixed with the new age granite towers, deep and dark alleyways contrasting starkly with the bright and hopeful courtyards. It was a sign of that society's forward motion. It was pathetic.

And around it was the Pit.

The city itself stretched for hundreds of miles, but despite that, the Pit circled it in what He knew was a perfect loop. It had opened for Him, because He saw it as a rightful thing to be done. He wouldn't have this ending be anything less than total and all-encompassing.

The Pit itself was far beyond being passed over, and only an insane mind would dare brave its depths. It reached further down than the world could physically sustain, pulling beyond physical law, into an unending supply line for Him and His forces.

Men once rebels against the dying government, once servants of their great Arch-Heretic, had pledged their selves to him in the end. They knew ultimately they were damning themselves, but the Arch-Heretic had sullied their interpretations of the events. He had that affect on people.

What they saw as a glorious revolution was really the rape of their civilization. He hadn't made it easy on them. What remained of them walked the city en masse, mindless carnal spirits trapped in warped bodies. They were like pledges to the Dark Powers that were behind all this, this last act in a long ballad. Wicked things were they, charging through the streets, maiming and killing, taking part in an orgy of destruction. His Blood Letters.

He stood then at a threshold between worlds, atop the tallest tower of the city. Above him, the sky was alight in that furious red, the clouds swirling into one massed storm cell. The atmosphere was ripping itself from the world. And below, the horizon was blackened, the world leveled to his gaze, his domain laid out before him. His citadels streets ran red with the blood of innocents, and the loyalist militia. It was alive with screaming and shouting and gunfire and war. He knew no one would survive this, but also He knew this was the most alive the world had ever been.

It was Chaos, the one true, adamant force in the universe. And it was His, and He was its.

It was His day of glory, His day of ascendancy.

His name was Deimos before. At that point though, He was no longer that. It was the day that our Deimos, hero of the people, became Prince Hael' Gor' Eath,' and saw to it that none would be left unknowing of him.

It was the day our story really began.

-------

For a long time people considered it an act of treason. No, it would be fair to say it stands as the most treasonous move in the history of our system. The usurpation of the planetary government, a bloody rebellion sponsored by the church itself.

Truth is, in the beginning it was a matter of righteousness. It was for the good of the people, that's why I was involved, that's why it escalated to something so…

I'm sorry; I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the start, or rather, at the end…

-------

When Warmaster Lazarus came back to Magna IV, his home world, he was a hero. It was the biggest celebration anyone could remember, a parade for miles down the city main street, the world's whole regiment marching proud and victorious. The brave men, the willing protectors of civilized society, armoured company at their side, welcomed back with a roar of acceptance and gratitude that lasted day and night for a full week.

The legendary gods of war, the mighty titan legion Legio Formidio, marched behind them, omnipotent and watchful. They stood as guard to the Warmaster, standing atop his moving fortress, adorned with the regalia of all his victories. He was a proud, young man, so far crippled beyond repair through his battles.

So they brought him home, to rule his people as a just, loved man, a servant to his people and his God. It was a day long remembered.

But years passed, and his mind flowed away from him. That was fine; he had loyal men to run his world under him. Not wise men though, and in time the world fell from its wonderful golden years, and joined its ruler in the darkness.

They felt every pain of poverty as proud cathedrals blackened and rusted, long standing statues blurred under acid-rain. A great world was dying a slow painful death, and there was no one to blame. All that was left of the great then Governor Lazarus was a proud memory, a loved man. The populous reeled in uselessness, unable to act, unable to bring back life to their unmoving society, their government sickened and apathetic.

But these people had faith in something, that they did, they were good Imperials, they loved and trusted their Emperor, praise His name, with all their hearts. And they trusted his cult.

-------

The priest examined himself in his personal quarters, making sure his entire holy getup was in place. He'd adapted it over time, doing away with all the silliness of it he could. He dreaded all the superfluous embellishments of his culture; it was unnecessary. And in times such as these? There was no room for it.

He sighed deeply, eyes closed. He felt no anxiousness; he'd preached many, many times for his clergy, his flock. It was all for the good of their spirits and the word of his beloved God-Emperor. They needed him in hard times.

And that, just that, was exactly what troubled him. Things had been going downhill for years, and by the time of his induction to the Cult Imperialis, his planet had fallen into a deep, long depression. He watched, not feeling sorrow for his people. He was furious.

So he had a hard decision before him.

"Father? Are you ready?" came a gentle voice. He put a lazy smile on, letting the fire drain out of him. He could hold it for a while.

"Yes, yes, I'll be about in a minute." He said, calmer than usual. He was known for his passionate sermons, but today he had to conserve his word, his mind needed to be ready. He still had a very, very substantial affair ahead of him.

Regaining his composure, he strode out to his own theater, into the massive cathedral, a testimony to faith and moral. There would be no performance today, though, not till much later.

"Peace be with you," he called out, striding confidently to stage center. His voice was strong; it had to be for everyone to hear. And everyone was present, he didn't have to check. No one in the city dared shy away from their faith; they all knew it was a responsibility of a citizen of the Imperium. His was the only church in the city. No longer did he see the faces in the crowd; it was one being, one direct cause, like any good congregation was.

"And also with you," they responded in kind.

"Let us pray."

-------

The priest examined himself in his personal quarters, making sure his identity was well hidden. He was about to take part in something big, and supposedly many influential people were in on it. They knew their reputations were at stake; even he needed to be careful.

Without words or faces, as these affairs often went, or so he understood they went, they had communicated on the how and where. The topic didn't need to be said, they'd all been gathered in a general understanding.

He sighed, resting his weary body on his desk. He had a great weight on his shoulders; the weight of the good of his flock. As their shepherd, he owed them much, it was his responsibility. Opening his eyes, he stared himself down in the mirror. The elegance of the room was disgusting; it was all so wasteful in his mind. But he couldn't delay.

He stood and walked back to his theater. Tonight he would perform.

"All present?" came a voice in the dark. There were no murmurs, and no one spoke up. They'd worked out a system; they'd come in small groups to be sure they could be in ample communication.

"Then let us begin without delay," the man continued, voice careful and weary. He stepped back out of the dim light of the torch, back into the dim group in the shadow.

"We all know why we are here, no need to beat around the bush. What say you?" spoke one shadow to the others.

"Our planet has gone to Hell under this dim-witted mess of blundering politicians! They talk change and reform, but they do not act! When do we move beyond the memory of that old cripple?" another dark form cried, using his guise to speak freely.

"Watch your tongue!" another hissed, at the other. "Pay the Governor his due respect; you're surely not half the man he is." There were murmurs of agreement among the sheepish assemblage, no one willing to bring insult where it was uncalled for. The priest waited his turn; maybe someone would bring his words to voice before he formed them. He would greatly prefer that.

"There is no denying something must be done now, but the question is what? And by whom should would act?" a lighter voice offered. By then the priest figured there would be no direction here without him. But what was new in that? His purpose was to give direction.

He stepped forward, letting the light show his figure, his face hidden still.

"Do none of you, my follow men, find this parodious?" There was silence at his light up-speak. They waited for his offering to the faux-debate, and he gave them a few moments of anxiousness, hoping somewhere that someone else would have the mind to see his point, and take his place. He shook his head, choking down the fear. "We speak on a brave new ground in this supposed conversation, we are decidedly the courageous saviors-to-be of our people, but here we stand, silent and cloaked in animosity?"

He looked around, making his outward disappointment plain. Inwardly he struggled to keep his voice even; this was not his congregation, these were not the men he preached to every day. This was not the Emperor's word.

"Need I say it plainly? Are we that conceited? We would believe we talk of change, but what have we thus far achieved?" he began, voice rising, anger edging into his words, finding its rightful place.

"Excuse me, but our discussion has only just begun," a comparatively small voice came, challenging him. He wished he could chose to let him win, but he knew there was no choice.

"And already I see none among us wills to say the words that need be said," he snapped, tearing through the shadows with his gaze. "Need I alone be the one to bring them into flight, need I force them into your ears? Must I truly tell you brave men what you already know but fear to accept? Are we cowards!?"

His roar cut through the silence, as he stalked the center of the circle, fully in the light now. "And what exactly need we say, my fellow man?" called a hurt pride, singing a song of dissension against the new rule in the room.

"The word is uprising," he said softly, silence claiming them.

"Uprising, truly, then? Are we oppressed?"

"Yes, yes we have been. Despite our privilege in position, when our people are oppressed by a stagnant and lumbering government, so are we. No man under the just Imperium is rightly ruled in the tyranny of inaction."

There was a quiet murmur of agreement and the priest knew he had seen everything in the wrong light.

"The word is rebellion if it needs to be, conspiracy if you will. But action in the end is the strength the concoction of literacy must boil down to! Let us not insult our cause with sheepishness and stupidity! Need I say this for you, my congregates!?"

His beastly anger dragged the ideas the others cradled in secrecy right to the front. He had thought this was not like his church, but it was. He preached to his flock, and he would lead them.

The priest pulled his hood down, revealing himself shamelessly. This was the Emperor's will.

There was a general shock when he showed them what they had already presumed. They'd all been to his fiery sessions, but they all cried out the same, some in surprise, and others in approval.

"I am Arch Bishop Mavichel of the Cult Imperialis, and I say the word is revolution, and the word is the God-Emperor's. Are you with me? In His name!? What say you!?"

Later it was said that the cry was heard from all around, but it was a secret thing, it didn't carry beyond the walls of the cathedral. At this though, they were one true organized force, every man there showing themselves for who they truly were, no longer timid.

Still, soon the populace would be divided, and a great struggle would begin.

-------

Mavichel turned as he heard footsteps behind him, walking away from the group of eleven conspirators who began to disperse from his churches main hall. In the dark behind the pews, where Mavichel stood right then, the man was nigh invisible, garbed as he was in black robes, over which he wore a simple red hood.

"Arch Bishop," he said in greeting. Mavichel shuddered at the sound, but didn't recognize it from the earlier discussions.

"Yes?" He said anyways, stopping to converse. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the man, who stood a little taller than himself, his skin fare as any Magnite man, and his hair pitch black, but falling straight to his lower back. Mavichel could tell that he wasn't Magnite, though, from the strange bone structure of his face that spoke of a different but unreadable ethnicity. He couldn't see his eyes.

"You've taken a great step today for your people," he said, his voice cold and unreadable.

"Excuse me?"

"The first step on the revolutionary road. It's noteworthy," he went on, "though it may not seem like much to you now. You'll be making history soon."

"Who are you?" Mavichel demanded, spooked, rounding on the man.

"A potential ally," he said, smiling. Mavichel was unconvinced, but saw the man's dead, cold blue eyes, and saw no malicious motive there. Mavichel drew closer, his voice falling to a whisper.

"Please understand if I find it hard to take your word at face value, but the way you speak of 'us,' is rather suspect. I find it hard to trust you. Are you not one of us?"

"No. I am an outsider, this much I'll admit," the man shrugged. "But not from the government, if that's what you suspect."

Mavichel nodded and backed off. "I suppose we all have to give each other our trust this early in the game. Later," Mavichel said making his point, "we will all have to prove our worth, yes?"

The man nodded. "I hope to prove myself to you soon, Father. You'll come to have need of me."

With that the man turned away and again was nigh invisible in the dark. Mavichel marveled at the strange suspect, but finally spoke up in question. "Do you have a name, brother conspirator?"

But there was no answer, as the man was already gone.


	2. Allegiances Sworn

"General," the Major said, greeting me as I entered our headquarters. I simply waved a hand at him, and he stepped back quietly.

"Have the colonels all arrived?" I asked my secretary as I neared his desk. He nodded. "Good." I walked down the hall, Major Vasili Mitrokhin on my heels. He, as I, had the look of age on him, a grey tint to his black hair, a sharpness of experience to his eyes. But unlike I, the way he carried himself, his demeanor off the field of battle, was strikingly less serious than my own.

He paced me, and I saw him raising an eyebrow at my unusually curt attitude. I couldn't help it though. Right then, I had too much on my mind.

"So what's the business of the day?" he asked, skirting his way around the real question.

"Wait your turn, Vasili," I responded, ignoring him as we reached the doors before the meeting room. He stepped in front of the door, blocking me, inquisition in his eyes.

"Hey," he began, a joking tone on his voice, "don't throw me for a curve without some kind of forewarning, huh?" I knew he was kidding, but the strange relevance of it caused me to imperceptibly twitch, covering my lie. "Oh," he said, catching it.

"You can wait. Now or a few seconds from now won't make a difference," I insisted, going for the door handle. He chuckled.

"Alright. Don't know how much trouble you can cause with a debrief."

I gave him a sidelong glance and entered the room. The ten company colonels rose to attention. "Be seated," I ordered, Vasili sitting at the long table. I stood before them all and took a deep breath, not sure of how to present this all.

"I suppose we'll get right down to it. We've returned home after this last decade of crusading to find our planet in a pretty sorry state. I don't think I need to ask what we all, the soldiery included, think of this.

"The question that needs to be asked is how _much_ do we think of this? What do we do about this?"

The polite silence that had persisted me while I spoke had turned to a shocked note. Even Vasili sat with a surprised look, eyebrows raised as he rested his head in his hand, leaning on the table. These were all smart men, and the implications weren't lost on them.

"How much do we think of it, sir?" asked 3rd Company's Colonel. "Permission to speak freely?"

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temple. "Assume that permission granted until we leave this room."

"Then it's irrelevant. It doesn't matter what we _think_." Several others nodded.

"That's the kind of talk that got our world like this," 7th Colonel disagreed. "Don't confuse dissent for disloyalty. Just talking about the issues we're faced with doesn't make us traitors."

"Dissent? That's the word we're going to use? Then we don't pretend that even having this discussion makes us dissenters?" 3rd Colonel went on. "It's not out place."

"Whose place is it then?" 7th rebutted.

"The governments, the politician's, Lazarus's. Not. Ours," 3rd repeated, his eyes steeled.

"Please stay open to discussion, Colonel," I urged gently, knowing we had to tread carefully. We were all bred to put faith in the Imperium, and coping with the idea that our emplaced government had fallen short on us was difficult.

"But they've failed us," another argued, "and have made little effect to reconcile."

"It doesn't matter. We still can't assume to take their place because they're incompetent. There's a reason everything is set up this way. If the Administratum above them deems it necessary, they'll make changes," someone on the opposition argued.

"Please," someone else scoffed. "This far out into the Eastern Fringes? We were made to be self sufficient. So these questions need to be asked. Think of your family, all of our families. We've fought to protect them from the enemy without to see our people starve and be crushed by depression, the enemies within."

"Well," 3rd came back, running a hand through his short black hair, "what do we do? There's nothing we _can _do."

It was then I took my chance. I saw where majority opinion lay.

"Not so," I interjected quietly, causing everyone to fall quiet to listen. "Keep in mind, the citizenry has made this consensus before us. Now it just falls to whether our loyalties lay with the Imperial people, with humanity, or with the few that claim to lead them."

"What consensus has been made?" I stopped again to gauge how to say it. In the end, I knew there was only one way.

"The populace has decided it's time to force the Governor to an ultimatum. It's a revolution, men. They're going to show the government the might of our people, and bring about the change we seek."

"That's preposterous! Madness…!" A man argued breathlessly, and though we all felt that small sentiment, there was an overall feeling of agreement.

"The real issue is this; how can anyone say this would be for the best of the people, if it leads to bloodshed?"

"And that's the thick of it," I said, leaning onto the table. "Without military might, the revolution would come down to the hands of beaurocrats, and then the localized PDF, the loyalists, would cut them down in short time.

"With just a military, there'd be no chance for negotiation, and we'd condemn our people to war and death."

"But with a balance of both, we can send the message of our austerity and bring this change around without a shot being fired," one of my colonels interjected, responded to with silence, as each of the officers eyed one another, their minds already made up, but not sure if admitting as much would be treachery.

"You have the armored divisions, General," Major Mitrokhin said with a grin. I nodded, knowing I had his support from the get go.

"The 7th Infantry, as well."

"And the 10th," agreed another.

"Aye, and the 4th," said yet another, each offering their support full heartedly. Finally, though, it came down to the 3rd, who sat, eyes closed thoughtfully, brow furrowed.

"What say you?" I asked. Finally, he stood.

"I say you have the 3rd, as well, be it for better or worse," but he punctuated this by looking me in the eye, raising a forewarning finger. "But the moment I see that this revolution has lost the good nature of the people, you have lost my support, and I will urge the rest of you all to take my side in this."

I pondered this right then, and then nodded. "No reason not to be conservative. Should the conspirators forget their motives, they will lose the guard. Dismissed. Bring my orders, with that, to your men," I said, each giving an affirmative, as we went our separate way, off to convert our ten companies for revolution.

As I stood alone in the room, Vasili came to my side.

"I think that's about the most trouble anyone has ever caused with a debriefing. Congratulations, Aleksei," I shook my head with a smile.

"Thanks, Vasili. For your support."

"Always," he laughed heartily, gripping my shoulder. "Now let's just hope we've not all misplaced ourselves, eh?"

-------

"You're a fool and moron! You damned romantic!"

"See here?" the older man laughed, motioning to the others. "This is why you don't let business men talk philosophy. Go beat your slaves, bourgeois," the man responded. The first, a tall and relatively fit but tired looking man of typical Magnite looks – black haired, aquiline features – grunted and turned away. He agreed inwardly, he wasn't meant to talk fantastical idealism with poets. He was an industrialist, a realist. And these plans were most certainly not realistic.

"Please, Willam, be cordial," said Djokhar Dudayev to the frail looking grey man, the poet. "And Ivan, curb your temper, and continue, if you would. Don't let the satirists deter you."

Ivan Serov, a proud, aristocratic looking man, nodded. "Understand, Willam, that while your plans send very nice theatrical messages, it doesn't quite set a good mood of sound thought to our movement."

"Sound thought, then, Ivan?" Willam laughed. "What, pray tell, could that possibly mean?"

"He means make your plans applicable. Make them realistic," came another voice that demanded silence from all others. As Mavichel strode into the room, many smiled and waved in welcome. He was easily the youngest in the room; among the other eleven men he'd met in his church – excluding General Aleksei Novikov, who had other needs to attend to - all now wearing red somewhere on their person to symbolize their part in it all.

"And make them heard again, if you would," Mavichel said with a wave of his hand, sitting across the well furnished upper class lounge of Ivan Serov's house.

"I suggested a civilian draft firstly, to our cause," he revoiced, soliciting respectful nods from several others. "And then I made suggestion on how we should first confront the Governor."

"To the first I would say it would need to be done carefully, but otherwise I agree," Serov said, turning to the Arch Bishop. "But to the second I say nay."

"Let's hear it," Mavichel said, listening politely.

"I say," Willam began, leaning forward, his face looking excited, "we take all of our forces and march up the Parade Route, and confront them at the walls of their fort. The small men, the righteous men, confronting the evil and wicked as they hold themselves high behind walls like cowards. We'd make quite the villain out of them, eh?"

Mavichel nodded, while again Ivan scoffed.

"Bold, undoubtedly. Sends quite a message," Mavichel agreed quietly.

"But it leaves us right open to a military retaliation," Ivan argued.

"I'd hope it never comes to that," Mavichel commented, looking up at Ivan as he paced. Ivan held his tongue, nodding, not willing to argue with the younger man.

"So you agree?" Willam said smugly, turning back with a smile to his fellow writers.

"We'll see," Mavichel said. "What interests me is your mention of civilian recruitment. Having the civilian hearts and minds on our sides will be a pivotal part of this," Mavichel commented, looking up then at Djokhar, a local civilian organizer of much renown.

"Right now, most people are simply striving to get by. I'll start putting the idea of drastic change into their heads, see where it takes us?"

Mavichel nodded, looking over his shoulder as a figure entered the hall behind him. He smiled dimly, excusing himself. "Please continue, though."

He walked off into the ornate hall, followed by the sound of heavy conversation. He came to walk at the side of the figure, his stride slow but sure and measured.

"They all trust you," the man noted, his voice unreadable and cold.

"They have no reason not to," Mavichel said, almost sounding angry, but withholding any sign on his sagely features. "And they should. I will remind you this is all in the good interest of the Magnite people."

"Of course," the man said with a nod.

"So continue from earlier," Mavichel said, looking over at the man. The man smiled at the floor, and then looked up at the Arch Bishop. Mavichel shuddered, looking away. His eyes were ice blue and cold as death, empty from any emotion.

"Very well," he began. "I'll spare you rhetorical questions, and tell you what I think of you. You love your people. You want change for them, more than anything. Your loyalty – and this I respect of you – your loyalty lies more with the people you love than the administrations you've been expected to follow."

"So much is true," Mavichel agreed carefully.

"But I have to ask how bad you want to see this better future. What is it worth to you?"

"My life," Mavichel said, restraining his anger again, turning to the man, "and yours."

"Very good. What are you willing to do?"

"What are you really asking me?" Mavichel growled, his suspicions growing and overtaking him. The man, though he seemed to have only spoken in favor of the movement, had somehow sparked an anger and spite in him. "Because you seem to be skirting your way around a true motive, and _that_ is not making you trustworthy in my eyes."

The man nodded, agreeing. "I'm simply here to help. I am a tool at your disposal, Arch Bishop."

"And what good is that?" Again the man shrugged, a blankly smug smile on his face, eyes locking with Mavichel's.

"My eyes and ears are everywhere. No force of weapon or persuasion is beyond my abilities. When you come to realize what you really need, what you are really willing to do, I will be here."

With that, the man turned and strode down the hall. "A name, sir?" Mavichel said after a moment, remembering his qualm from their last meeting.

The man called over his shoulder. "Erebus, for now."


	3. The March Revolution

For a long time people considered it an act of treason. No, it would be fair to say it stands as the most treasonous move in the history of our system. The usurpation of the planetary government, a bloody rebellion sponsored by the church itself.

But in truth, it had all started with good intention, good leadership and good cause. They acted in secrecy, a coalition of the willing, all gathered in the shadows of the slums, in the underground, organizing. Word spread, and hope grew; no one could have ever dared something as this before, and with the supposed sponsorship by the Cult Imperialis, all people knew they were about to know justice in action.

In truth it was not very romantic, not in the planning. By day the main conspirators went about their work, playing a low profile, staying careful, sure nothing was astray in the image of serenity. At night though, and in times of restfulness for the populace, places of loyal people became gathering grounds.

In the minds of the people, who would see the uniform marches and secret meetings, there was a huge ballad at play, a brave, romantic dance of secrecy. Yes it was secret, but not nearly as interesting as one might think a rebellion would be.

Yes, there was recruiting and many stories and many people to share them. With the help of Djokhar Dudayev, held in great renown with the people the revolution quickly had the support of every man and women of the city, and with the help of merchant leaders like Ivan Serov, the word and support spread across the empty plains of the world to every other city, new outcroppings of cloaked conspirators rising, with civilian enlistees to back them.

Though in truth, most of the forces came from the new Planetary Defense Force, led by their General Aleksei Novikov. Governor Lazarus was not a Warmaster in their memory, just an old legend, and they'd never fought by his side. The General was their leader, and he'd been there in the cloak and dagger meeting, in the shadow.

None of it was hard to procure, not the resources or men. The most difficult aspect of it all was seeping their blunt propaganda into the minds of the people, and letting them know in the end it was the church's will, and therefore the Emperor's. And that wasn't very difficult for a group as wise as theirs.

They called it the March Revolution, and not a soul forgot, not a soul dared be found elsewhere when the day they'd all been speaking of came.

-------

We marched a proud force, straight up the main road to the capitol, right uphill to the massive citadel looming over our city. A deep gust threw down at us, through the cobblestone lanes, wide enough to accompany my closest allies and our army.

And yea, it was an army. My men didn't need convincing; they saw the way Lazarus had left our world, and they trusted me in all things. No blood needed to be shed, that they knew, but if the men atop their high towers and peaks could see our devotion and unity, they would see our righteousness.

And that failing, we had our armour at our sides, our mechanized companies, thousands of men marching in formation under the unified banner; the red clothe, the eye of the Arch Bishop.

Our people lined the buildings, watching silently, nervous but proud of us, prouder than the day we rode home through victory. This was the liberation of the planet we protected.

Before us, the shadow of the great Victory Spire loomed, a mess of towers and peaks of metal, a testament to the hero of our world, the one who'd grown old and failed us many times over. Behind us, a massive city sprawled in sickness and decay, begging for its saviors. To our sides, our people watched from the windows and roofs, anxious.

And I rode at the front, with the new heroes of our world.

I was with Arch Bishop Mavichel when it came down to his words, riding upon my honored Baneblade steed, all of us robed in the uniforms of our trade. Rightfully, I was in our PDF's red armor, all my medals upon me, all the regalia, and I stood among other great men, politicians in their suits, men of the Munitorum and Clergy and Mechanicum in their gowns and armor. At our front, rightly leading us as he had done from the start, stood Father Mavichel.

The one thing connected us all was the red cloak, the cloak we'd all worn for secrecy, but now wore for distinction. They were blood red and unadorned, in the color of our systems oldest tradition. Mavichel wore only this, his body obscured in red clothe.

All moved as one, and stopped as one when his hand rose in the air. He looked up calmly at the men gathered at the lowest balcony, ready to discuss their surrender. What they had to defend themselves with, an army rivaling my own, the men left behind as we campaigned to keep our planet safe, lined the walls of the Victory Spire, ready to fight if the need arose.

"Look now, all people upon this day, the peculiarity of these events. Our people here have come to a crossroads, a point where one infallible word and letter has met another, the unstoppable force and the immovable object. This is a long standing riddle, a conundrum with which philosophers look down upon lesser men. But we, we are great men, I say."

As whenever he spoke, not a foreign word flittered in the air about him, not a wisp of wind challenging him with a sound to work to lessen his message. Gods looked down on us that day; they let all be silent for him, because in the end he would be forever right.

Mavichel waited for a moment, a small creature of a thrall-man whispering these words into the whitened, atrophied form of Lazarus. Lazarus's face showed no response, his mind to far gone beyond him to allow him to play any part in this. It was, in the end, just a respect paid to what was left of the Warmaster.

"But let us not take this in vanity, but as a responsibility. We are great men, and this is a great day, when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object. Let us come to a great, wise, and peaceful resolution."

In my mind, I find what the politicians said in response tedious and hollow, more of a pleasantry, like letting Lazarus attend the meeting. They didn't need to speak, Mavichel could do all that for them, he could tell them what was going to happen, and no matter how he put it, it would be just. The man speaking in the place of their organization, the government, was plain and not nearly the character that Mavichel was.

Tales told of how romantic, how fantastic it was, but those were just tales for people who needed them for these proceedings to be as imperative as they really were. Though tales they were, it had all been beautiful.

There was little in the way of back and forth between us, each one of the men on my Baneblade stepped forth and made the case and speech they'd prepared, and the representatives in their balcony made their response, that was not far beyond full agreement. We would win that day; we would have our way.

When the first shot came, it was a strange, strange moment.

For a few seconds no one spoke, knowing something had gone wrong somewhere, something had fallen through. Everyone stood silent, staring at where the representative had once been. It was wrong, all of it.

Without warning the whole city exploded in screams of dismay and anger, chaos claiming a beautiful day and making it black. Laser fire cried out in response to the sudden assassination, everyone scrambling for some kind of direction.

I saw Father Mavichel recoil and thought the worst, quickly going to him. His tanned features went a deep pale, those wise brown orbs of his growing wide in disbelief.

"Father! Father, let's get you to safety, Father," I moaned, my composure lost as fire reigned the air his words once graced. Mavichel's reply was weak and conveyed his inability to understand. He was saying something; staring up at where the man had once been, up at the sky, searching for his God. Our God.

"What is it Father?" I asked, all our wise conspirators dissipating into the roiling mass of death and miscommunication. I held him as he fell to the ground. He had been so wise, and so young.

"Who…? Who did this…? Who's to blame?" he asked, so many questions he suddenly didn't have any more wise answers for. "Where did we go wrong…?"

"I don't know Father, I just don't know…"

I'm not proud of how I acted. I knew he was going to die, and I knew my men needed direction in this Hell of a day. But my strength was gone from me. I watched a prophet, no, a messiah, die in my arms. There was nothing I could do.

He didn't respond to me though, he stared right up into the sky, never relenting with that look, knowing somewhere he had been lead astray.

"Was it not your word, my Emperor…?"

Before I knew it there were men at my side, and I could feel my tank firing away with a fever below me. They didn't take me, they took him, he was the one he needed his people. But my people needed me.

In a flash, I was back in the battle, but quickly I knew there was no fight to be fought. There were as many men here, struggling in a storm of melee and bloody death, as I had seen in my greatest action. There were no maneuvers, no tactics or formations. All we could do was flee, let who was left defend us in their panic.

It all blurred together inside the safety of the armour. I didn't say a word; all I could do was lay silent. I heard my men's voices and the background over the vox-systems. They were dying, but now it was in vain. It was over for all of us, for the government, for the church, for our planet and our people. We could never reconcile this.

"All available and unengaged units fall back! Flee to wherever is still safe! We must reorganize, we've lost…" I heard a man cry, my second-in-command, right at my side. "Take our leaders with you if you can…"

There was no more I could do, I knew it was over. It had been perfect…

"Honor the Arch Bishop…"

People told me later, and I heard over the vox, the tanks were firing, ordinance shells violating the beauty of the Parade Route, where heroes marched in victory. Buildings collapsed in flames, the bystanders to a wonderful day of resolution killed because no one knew who to shoot anymore. There were too many people, it was beyond avoiding.

Outside, the men were calling for their leaders, for direction. We were two sides of a conflict, but still we wore the same uniform that had united us, brothers in battle, even on that Black Day.

No one spoke in our flight. A few wept silently. It hadn't taken much, but suddenly no one knew who we were fighting for…

-------

They called it the March Revolution, and not a soul forgot, not a soul dared be found elsewhere when the day they'd all been speaking of came.


	4. Black Days

Mavichel died thereafter.

I wasn't in the room personally. We all felt like we'd died ourselves, that our world, our movement, and our people had died with him when we heard that machine flat lining. The medical attendants of my staff walked out, looking blank and hopeless.

"Please leave us," I motioned to the present guards, my staff. The several March Conspirators, as we had come to call ourselves, that had made it out the Parade Route with me joined by the Arch Bishop's lifeless body, silently offering prayers.

I leaned against the far wall. How had things gone so wrong? Incoherent reports of raging skirmishes came in from all corners of the sprawling cities of the planet, the chain of command on both sides severed. In the room over, I'd heard the vox-officers in frantic battle over the com systems with commands all the way down to the smallest platoon. People, my soldiers and the Governor's, were running aimlessly across the city, everyone trying to get a hold of the situation, establish order.

But without us, the leaders of the revolution, it was impossible. The battles raged like a virus, buildings falling, armored divisions blaring away at the now void shielded citadel that housed the Governor, and the Guard barracks's. The return fire destroyed blindly.

We'd started this all in Mavichel's church, where we two dozen conspirators gathered in our planet's good interest and red colors. We'd all shed our colors, while we sat in the concrete bunker below street level in the slums that smelled of fuel and grease. The ground shook every so often at the blast of ordinance on the streets above.

Artillery fire in my home city. How could we ever come back from this?

"All's lost," one of us muttered solemnly, standing over the pale corpse.

"Aye," said another, turning to the other conspirators. "The Arch Bishop's word was our guiding light. Without him, all is naught." There was silence for a moment, while we all tried to come to terms with our situation. I spoke up next.

"I don't think now's the time for mourning," I said quietly, "the stakes are just higher now."

"How can you even think that!?" the second snapped, whipping about at me with wild eyes. "Don't dare discount the Arch Bishop's loss!"

I frowned at him, but I understood. These men weren't soldiers. In my field, we take the loss at heart and move on. They didn't understand that we couldn't stop there. Right then had to be the time we took action, that we compensated and moved on in the new set of circumstances. I told them as much.

"There's no way about it. Either we sit here and curse our fortune, which I am disinclined to allow us to do, or we move on."

"If we don't reestablish order soon, we condemn our people to further injustice, this time of the life threatening sort. So aye, action must be taken," said the youngest in the room, Djokhar Dudayev, "but what? Mavichel had his plans; we were only his consultants and suppliers. How do we move on without him within the frame of his designs?"

"We construct our own," I put forth.

"Dare we? How can we assume to make these decisions for our people?" Asked the first. "How could even Mavichel do that?"

"That's why he chose to have us, the Conspirators. We represent the people as a whole, from every corner of our society," the Djokhar, putting forth a finger to punctuate his point. There was a tone of hope on his voice as he came upon Mavichel's backup plan. I hadn't even considered it that way, as close as I was to the Arch Bishop. The numbers of the Conspirators had risen from the original twelve from the capitol city to a few hundred all over the several other major cities.

"So what would you suggest we do? Convene with what's left of our number?" the second asked, opening back up to discussion.

Djokhar turned to me, eyes glowing. "Can we open communication?"

"We'll see in the hours that follow. If my men remember their orders, we'll get reports in from the remaining Conspirators."

He nodded gratefully. "So we wait here. We take shelter and as the initial chaos dies down, we make contact. We aren't lost yet, fellows."

I excused myself as they continued on in conversation. I was one of them, yes, but I existed in the group for different reasons than the philosophers and writers, and the politicians and the merchant leaders. I was here to lead the troops, to keep order.

"General," said my vox-officer as I entered the room, coming to attention.

"At ease," I said with a wave of my hand. "Sit rep, please."

"Of course," he began, as I noted the madness over the vox system had lessened slightly. "Of the ten regiments present at the Parade Route, six have fled into the city with varying losses, net losses low overall. The other four have taken the buildings and are hammering the loyalists in the citadel.

"We're getting reports of loyalists turning weapons on our men in all other cities, but that's to be expected. Fighting's pretty fierce.

"Our armored divisions have scattered. They're working autonomously, as of right now." I nodded gladly at that. My trust for Major Mitrokhin had not been misplaced.

"Any reports from the units escorting the Conspirators?" My officer shook his head. I nodded, patting him on the back. "Keep us connected, Lieutenant. Make sure people hear our voices."

"Yes sir," he said, returning to the com room.

I strode then up the stairs into the impromptu barracks on ground floor. Every man stood, looking to me for orders. As a swept my gaze over them, young men with all trust invested in me, I knew, from here, we couldn't make any more mistakes.

"Platoon Leaders, with me," I said, walking into the command room, maps laid down over tables and the walls. I looked up at an overall view of the city, silent.

The city started low in the plains, in miles worth of manufactorums, and housing areas, moving up a low slope to the low laying slums. Further up the hill, the city became a few square miles of massive buildings, stone cathedrals intermingling with newer skyscrapers. The alleys there would make a dangerous Hell for the conflicts to come, this I knew.

At the top of hill, overlooking the steep fall to the ocean below was the capitol building. It was a massive cathedral, separated by a quarter mile of empty space. The direct route to it, the Parade Route, was at the moment alive with fire – so much we knew but didn't show on the map, of course.

"So," I began, turning to my men, "let's get to work."

--------

The atmosphere in the Chimera transport was grim, the sound of the engine's roar filling the enclosed space. Several guardsman stood, some looking shell shocked, but all silent.

Willam passed his gaze over them with a humorless smirk. He took a swig from the canteen he carried, shaking his head. "That's why you don't bring guns to a peace talk," he grumbled, his voice low.

One of the guardsmen, a young lieutenant, shot him a venomous look. "It takes men to fire guns, sir."

"Ah," Willam said, raising a finger, voice rising with an unusually black tone, "that's why you don't bring guns with killers attached to the triggers to a peace talk."

The Lieutenant was quick upon the old man, gripping him by his red cloak, and pulling him forward. Willam let out a little cry. "We're _not _killers! And this sure as Hell isn't our fault! My men had more stakes in this than any poet or philosopher, because it's our families that are starving! So shut your mouth before I shut it for you!"

"I would if it didn't leave the question of who, then, is to blame?" Willam spat back, recoiling as the man brought up a fist.

"Lieutenant!" snapped the Major, entering through transport's driving chamber. "Take a seat," he said, staring the young officer down. The man offered both of the two angry looks, but sat silently, as the older officer stood Willam up. "Join me topside if you would."

The two climbed up the short ladder to the hatch, and with the Major's help, Willam sat atop the tank as it rolled down the tight alley. Willam looked about, the buildings looming high overhead, blotting the sun out. The alley was barely wide enough to hold the Chimera as it chugged along, trailed by several other transports and a few Leman Russ tanks.

The alley was lined with dark windows and doors, the whole of the place looking desolate. Most of the lower levels of the city looked this way, he knew.

"Tell me, Mr. Haim, what do you think happened back there?" Major Mitrokhin asked. Willam chuckled sarcastically.

"Some begrudged guard couldn't contain his temper, and destroyed our chances of winning this without violence," he explained.

"Do you really think one of the PDF would have done that?" The Major asked, taking a swig from Willam's offered canteen.

"Let's face it," Willam said, looking up at the sky far above, "they aren't the smartest people around. I don't think any of them understand that a fight can be won without violence. They're made to fight, aren't they?" Vasili laughed.

"That's true, we aren't quite thinkers. And it's also true we're meant to fight. But this is our home, and the fight was never meant to follow us here. None of us wanted this."

"You've got it now, though," Willam commented darkly. "I fear the government will use this as every reason to make us the villains. We'll have to work hard to keep the moral high ground if we want to come out the victors."

Mitrokhin frowned but nodded, watching the dirt and detritus they passed.

"These streets, places like right here," Mitrokhin began, thoughtfully, "will be the death of us. I don't think anyone even remembers these places being built over, and now most of us will die here." As he said this, Willam glanced up at him, expectantly. "You thinkers better clear this up quick, because it won't just be us killers dying down here."

Willam raised an eyebrow, hoping he hadn't made offense, but after a moment Vasili grinned humorously. War wasn't a joke to him, but how else could he face this except with a smile on his face? Willam understood.

"Where are we off to?" he asked after a while.

"My armored divisions will be breaking up into smaller groups, and striking the Victory Spire from hidden positions. That means us, too."

Willam nodded grimly. He knew that meant the enemy tanks and infantry would be working to get rid of him. "Fortunately for you though, this Chimera isn't really up to any offensive work, and the General left us officers with specific instructions; get the conspirators to safety, wherever that may be." Willam sighed with relief at that, and again Vasili laughed, drinking deeply from the canteen.

"Emperor be praised that I've made myself weak and important," Willam laughed, joined then by Vasili. Their grim laughter and cheer echoed with the roar of tank engines down the alley, backed by the distant sound of war.


	5. Mavichel's Respite

The following hours were like sweating off a fever; the resulting chaotic battles quickly died out as the loyalists took to the Victory Spire and other government buildings, then wrapping the looming spire with an impenetrable void shield. As our forces fled for their lives, trying to keep as much of our resources intact as possible, our lines of communication and chain of command were severed.

But as the fallout of the March Revolution – which was what we referred to the initial battle as – faded, and night fell, the atmosphere cooled. There were cracks of las guns and solid shell weapons in the night, and every few hours, artillery strikes would bite into the invisible field of energy over the Victory Spire, responded to by more blind strikes into the dark.

The city had gone overall quiet, and our PDF was perched in hiding all over the cities, taken to the many underground bunkers, and loyal factories of the Mechanicum. As dusk took the city, and from there pitch blackness, the radio quieted from a mad conversation with the depths of insanity and war, to complete radio silence, punctuated every so often as distant groups got into contact with one another, all eventually coming into contact with myself and the three conspirators with me.

I'm not ashamed to tell you, as the night went on and confirmation came that all eleven of the other conspirators, excluding Mavichel, had survived; our return call was a lie. We told them that Mavichel was deep in prayer, consulting with the Emperor alone, and that we dared not disturb him.

That was partly true, looking back. He was in consultation, and had no concern with us for that period.

Quickly, as midnight came, we had reorganized ourselves, consolidating command to the other conspirators. Some argued that we should wait for Mavichel, but Ivan took the lead and told us he had been left with this backup plan by the Arch Bishop. None argued.

It became a matter of taking military control of the city by block, and for that the plans were laid out as the night went on. Me and my staff, in coordination with Major Mitrokhin and his, drafted the plans down to the letter as the night went on, and sent out the orders for the next day.

People might – though I'd think these people are gone by now – have thought without Mavichel, we'd lost ourselves, and in some sense that was true. Us ten or so who knew he had moved on had truly moved beyond hope for that short time, and things did feel up in the air for that time.

But if you want my opinion? It was the most productive period of the revolution. Mavichel was a great friend of mine, and I trusted him as long as I could, but we had started those few days embroiled in war and madness, and left them in a much, much better state.

But as I'm sure you've so far surmised, things didn't stay that way. Could they have, anyways?

-------

General Yevgeni Ivanovsky strode surely down the wide hallways of the Victory Spire, his nicely shined boots echoing off the gleaming marble. The innards of the massive palace were quiet and clean, still held in perfect working order, as they always had been.

He nodded to a group of politicians, conversing off to the side. Their conversation was less frantic than it was only days ago. The fighting had died down, and an element of civility had taken the Spire. Though the General's loyal men still walked the halls and wide open dining chambers and courtyards and antechambers in uniforms, the politicians had calmed down, staying confined to their meeting rooms.

Two armored guards stepped aside as General Yevgeni walked out onto a higher balcony of the Spire. A few figures walked past him, leaving three officials standing by the edge.

"Ah," Ilya Dzhirkvelov, a middle aged woman a fit build, spoke up as she turned to face him, "please, join us."

He stood silently at her side, nodding curtly in greeting to the wheel chair bound form of Governor Lazarus Morgenstern, his form still large as it had been in his prime, but now wrapped in red robes, and armored plates reminiscent of his glory days. His head was lying to the side, his eyes milky white and his long hair and beard white.

The General ignored his adjutant, and Ilya went on. "Never thought you'd see the day, right?" she commented, leaning on the stone wall on the very edge of the balcony. General Yevgeni looked down solemnly at the Parade Route, which was effectively a no man's land.

Through the occasional shimmering of the void shield, he saw the craters blasted into the wide cobblestone street. The dead wrecks of tanks lay scattered every few thousand meters, and red clad bodies carpeted the areas closer to the gates. Oddly, the quarter kilometer courtyard that led from that gate to the massive bronze double doors of the Spire lay untouched and empty.

Beyond that, in the midday sun, smoke rose from burning buildings and muzzle flares punctuated localized battles from structure to structure.

"Yes ma'am," Yevgeni said quietly, his voice stoic and quiet.

"It's a shock for everyone," Ilya went on calmly, pouring herself a glass of clear liquid from a table nearby. "No one would have ever predicted this, not from a people as ours, a people so unified. Treachery and dissent is something for the stagnant races of inner Imperial space, people who take leisure in everyday life. Not for us."

"Noted, ma'am," Yevgeni said, unamused. Ilya offered him a glass but he shook his head.

"Do you disagree, General? Because your animosity for me seems to suggest you wouldn't condemn them as I would."

Ilya took appreciation inwardly as she noted his stricken look. "Of course I condemn them, ma'am. They _are_ traitors. I'll bring them down to the best of my abilities." Ilya smiled.

"Good," she said, turning back to the view of the city, "that's the kind of conviction we'll need in the days to come."

"Yes ma'am," Yevgeni agreed. Ilya waved at Governor Lazarus's adjutant.

"Please take the Governor to his quarters. I think he's tired."

"Of course, Ms. Dzhirkvelov," the younger man said, taking him away. Ilya relaxed a little.

"Honestly, I can't wait for that man to die. Even with him here I pretty much hold the position of governor, but Emperor damn him just seeing that vegetable around makes me sick," Ilya joked, responded to by silence. "Anyways," she went on, turning to him, "I wonder; did you see any of the faces of the conspirators on General Novikov's Baneblade?"

Yevgeni nodded. "Because I don't know the general well enough to say, but I never thought this of the Arch Bishop. Maybe of the Mechanicum, they're always self-serving, eh?

"Regardless, no matter what attempts at peace talks they try to bring up," Ilya began, punctuating her point with a raised hand, "you will greet these men, the March Conspirators as they have referred to themselves as, with violence only. Bring them in if you can, but that failing, I want them dead."

The General nodded, a hint of fire in his eyes. "Yes, ma'am. Understood."

As he strode back into the Spire's walls, her voice called after him. "Sever the head, kill the serpent, General Ivanovsky."

-------

It was early morning, the sun just then peaking over the several story Mechanicum buildings, which for Ivan would have denoted high noon where he lived further up in the city.

All around him guardsmen roused, hefting equipment with them and organizing into squads. He looked about him, sitting in the abandoned innards of a tank factory, the wide roads empty and whipped with dust and the wind that carried it. As the guardsmen, armored in the usual red roused him, he nodded, and stood to follow the rough two rows of thirty men as they trotted off into the dust.

"If you don't mind me saying it," Ivan began, turning to his fellow conspirator at his side, "you make much better company than Willam."

"Oh?" The man spoke up, his voice cold as always.

"You talk less," Ivan explained as they walked on, about in the middle of the column. "By now Willam would've taken every chance to spin this catastrophe to someone's blame."

The man smiled, an easily restrained and carefully measured facial cue. Ivan knew that this man, who was called Erebus and only that, was a well trained and experienced politician. Despite that, he was well built, however well he hid it in his black robes.

Ivan felt he'd seen this type of man before, in his significant travels. Ambition and dangerous men, with intelligence and cunning honed to a razor edge. They were generally self serving, but sometimes so tied to a cause that it was simply that no other man or woman was of concern to them. They were powerful tools, and Ivan had used them before – in fact, he had been one of those people in his younger days.

Usually this kind of man died out young. Domum beat the cruelty and coldness out of them, leaving them with the seem realism, but with a stronger sense of community. It had happened to Ivan. He wondered just who this Erebus, a man with age in his eyes but not on his features, really was?

"Grenade!!" came a cry from the front of the column. Ivan didn't take a second to react, dropping to the ground as an explosion tore through the air in the street. Ivan scrambled back into the cold dark atmosphere of the factory, hiding behind a metal crate. He glanced over the crate, watching as red lines of las fire ripped down from the buildings adjacent, killing the front squad of the procession in seconds.

He ran to the wide door of the factory, keeping ducked down near where the majority of the guard were. His heart was pounding madly, the adrenaline and fear coursing through him uncontrollably. Ivan had never said it, but he'd also envied the guard and what they did, always wanted to experience battle and fight for Domum.

Right then, as las rifles barked off like a symphony, grenades tearing into midday sun, the screams of pain and chaos, dying men and orders rung in Ivan's ears. Somehow, he felt this wasn't for him.

"They've taken the buildings across the way, sir!" a guard yelled to the Lieutenant, over the sound of battle. Ivan glanced up, watching the scattered red clad guard in the tank factory hiding behind industrial equipment and boxes, firing out of windows on the ground floor, the return fire strong but still about even.

"Do we have positions?" the Lieutenant asked. The man nodded. "Then you know what to do!"

After maybe half a minute, the battle calmed down suddenly as one of the guard in the factory fired off a frag missile from his position into the bulk of the enemy force. As the ringing in his ears wore off, Ivan stood and poked his head out of cover.

It had only been maybe a minute, so Ivan wasn't prepared for the carnage that lay in the open street. Several bodies lay burnt and broken, unrecognizable, and others were simply pieces scattered hither and thither. Ivan stood transfixed at the sight of such carnage, wanton and aimless slaughter. What had just been accomplished from the cruel and merciless deaths inflicted on either side?

And what did sides matter, he wondered, looking into the young faces of Domum's sons?

As he pondered this, a strange feeling of hopelessness taking him, Erebus pulled him back into cover gently. "Keep your head down, please, Mr. Serov. Wouldn't want one of the loyalists to see the shine and make a bald corpse out of you."

Ivan gave him a surprised glare. He'd seen bad things in his time, but seeing such pointless death as these, he couldn't simply laugh that off. Erebus ignored him, walking towards the Lieutenant calmly. "Excuse me Lieutenant, but if it isn't too much trouble I'd like to hurry this little excursion along."

"Pardon, sir?" he asked, slightly confused, two sergeants at his sides, discussing how to deal with what might remain of the enemy across the street.

"You see," Erebus began to explain with a little half-smile, "we have previous engagements to meet, and while I appreciate your position, our course," he went on, pointing a finger across the street, motioning to the building in which the enemy took shelter, "goes onwards thusly."

"Respectfully, sir, I can't let you do that. We don't know what kind of weaponry they might still have up there, just looking for a high value target such as yourself or Mr. Serov. We can't afford such losses, so we have to take this cautiously and slowly. We'll be at the com bunker within the week, don't worry."

Erebus nodded, chuckling as the man turned away, going back to issuing orders. "Well, here's a thought: how about you give Mr. Serov and me a sergeant and his squad as an escort and we just up and walk across the street," he suggested, soliciting an aggravated sigh from the Lieutenant.

"I'm not going to let you do that," he said finally. Again Erebus nodded. He turned to one of the sergeants and snapped his fingers.

"Come Sergeant. You take your orders from me now. You're going to take Ivan, your squad, and I, and find us a way to the Arch Bishop's head quarters before days end," he ordered sternly, but still in that quiet, cold tone. The sergeant looked over at his Lieutenant, unsure of what to do. "Don't look at him Sergeant, he's not your daddy and you don't take orders from him any more. Now go on."

The man rallied his squad and Ivan joined Erebus with them as they strode into the street. "That was bold, Erebus," Ivan praised quietly, stepping over the fallen soldiers. Erebus smiled, not even glancing up at the empty windows, leading the way into the building adjacent.

"Feel free to cover our escape, Lieutenant," Erebus called back, responded to by grim laughter amongst his new personal escort.


End file.
